


You are Special!

by Kit_SummerIsle



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Violence, dub-con, non-con, rough interface
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle
Summary: Praise and affirming his worth has always been Drift's weakness. Even when he was Deadlock. Because not many mechs have ever given it to him and mean it. Small wonder he loved them all... albeit in different ways.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [radio-cybertron](http://radio-cybertron.tumblr.com/) wrote a Megatron/Deadlock story on tumblr and it totally hooked me on the pairing. I couldn't resist it... so there it is. :-)  
>  It's not all that long, but I broke it into a few chapters anyway. And it's written all, I just want to dither a bit more with the last chapter, so it will be finished, I promise!

_You are special!_

_I’ve heard great things about you!_

_Such talent must not be wasted!_

_The Decepticons need mecha like you!_

Deadlock gnashed his denta, growled deep in his vocalizer and kept going. War had no heroes really, he learned that well since. Nomech was special and no great destinies made an appearance on the energon-drenched battlefield. It was killing, pure and simple. Shoot or be shot, slash or be clawed, bite or be bitten… it was just like the cutthroat survival of the streets all over again, only on a larger scale. Sometimes they advanced and made victories – sometimes the Autobots got lucky and they had to retreat, but neither side gained any large victories for vorns. 

_::Back to the base! Retreat!::_

Like now. Deadlock shot a smaller Bot in the helm who failed to take adequate cover, stomped on a leg on the ground that still twitched, turned and saw himself alone, save for the gray frames and detached limbs around him. Dark grey clouds hung heavy overhead, promising an acid rain soon, ending the battle anyhow. The din of the battle died down too, only a few shots and explosions sounded from further on – 

“Come on, Deadlock, don’t dawdle!”

Deadlock snarled at the voice and swung his smoking blaster around to point towards it. It was promptly knocked aside by a black servo much larger than his and though he was still snarling, the black and white warrior took a reluctant step backwards and gruff voice replaced the growl.

“Turmoil.”

His commander growled back at him low and dangerously and Deadlock reluctantly decided to put away his blaster. Reckless and fearless he might be, but every Decepticon knew to choose their battles carefully. Especially against a superior officer twice their size and several times their firepower. It was… just common sense. 

“I just took care of a Bot.” 

Deadlock pointed out the smallish, graying frame, the hole in his helm still smoking. Turmoil nodded shortly and waved him forward on the debris-strewn battleground. Driving was impossible on such a broken ground, so they walked, jumped and climbed over the ruined structures that had at one time been a small town. Deadlock didn’t know its designation, nor did he care. The armies fought for it and destroyed it and now it was nothing. 

He cared – and worried – far more about the large frame moving behind him. Turmoil was silent and it wasn’t unusual per se… but there was something in that silence that Deadlock didn’t like, something in that dark field that spoke of frustration, anger and… something else. Of course his annoyance could have been just from the fact that his commander came behind him and it ticked off every sensor Deadlock owned, to let such a danger follow him… but he couldn’t very well tell Turmoil to slag it and move where he could see him. No, that would go swimmingly, Deadlock grimaced to himself.

They were nearly at the base when the uneasy prickling at the nape of his neck ripened into a full-blown alarm, but by then it was too late. Turmoil came closer to him, the dark and heavy field lapping at him and made his armour crawl, he was far too close and Deadlock whirled around just to find himself pressed into the wall, the larger frame and huge arms blocking out the little light the orn had left. He squirmed and his fists hit black metal, but it was like hitting the wall – ultimately useless.

“What the frag…!”

“Exactly...”

Hot exvents washed over his face and Deadlock grimaced as he fought to free himself. Turmoil has made some passes on him before, but never a serious attempt like this. He was a valuable warrior, not somemech to use and discard… at least he had thought so. In the Decepticon army it was an accepted fact of life that the weak submitted to the strong. But Deadlock was not weak. At least not in general. He could hold his own even among mechs larger than himself. But Turmoil was definitely stronger now, caught him by surprise and knew Deadlock well enough to not to let the smaller mech use any of his weapons. The nearly silent tussle lasted mere breems outside the base, before Deadlock was none too gently pinned down to an outcropping surface and that large servo roughly grabbed his panel. He growled and tried to throw him off still, knowing that it was not going to work, when suddenly a new voice spoke up behind them both.

“Turmoil.”

“Slag off!”

Deadlock felt the weight suddenly and miraculously disappear from his back and lifted a brow plate. Whoever it was, just removed Turmoil from his back like he weighed nothing and there weren’t many mechs on the base capable of that… ohhh… Deadlock turned and squinted at the newest large frame towering over him.

“Lord Megatron?”

Nearby, Turmoil rolled to his pedes, rising and snarling in fury, but he braked heavily when he recognized the silhouette standing over them. Denta gnashing, growl barely stopped, he, too acknowledged the leader of the army, however reluctantly.

“Lord Megatron…”

“Hardly the time to indulge, right, Commander?”

Lord Megatron’s tone was scathing and Deadlock heard with satisfaction as Turmoil’s denta gnashing again in frustration. He so loved his hated commander put to his place.

“You were ordered to explain to Soundwave why the Autobots broke through your part of the field. Did you intend to do that ... when?”

Turmoil’s fury abated and flickered into worry, almost fear. There was one worse thing than answering to Lord Megatron about your failure, and that was to report to the silent mech whom every Decepticon feared – and have him recount it to Lord Megatron, who would give out the punishment for it.

“Or should I find another commander in your place?”

Deadlock didn’t even dare to vent, lest he disturbed what was suddenly turning from a disaster into his dream. He had known that Lord Megatron was following his career, his rise from a mere grunt to a subcommander. He had seen glances that looked approving when he fought and won and demolished the enemy. Of course Lord Megatron cared for all his troops, all his warriors. But not equally. And the Lord of the Decepticons having given him his new designation, Deadlock dared to think that he was a bit more than any other mech in the vast army. 

“Begone now.”

Turmoil seethed, but couldn’t defy him. Casting a hateful glance at Deadlock, he disappeared into the base. Deadlock straightened up, unsure what, if anything he should say or do. 

“You did well this orn. Turmoil lost the line but you stood your post.”

Praise was his weakness, Deadlock knew. He still couldn’t ignore them.

_“Such talent must not be wasted!”_

To hear that he was not useless, not nomech, not a disposable… to hear that he did well, that he achieved something… it was heady. He stood up straighter – still smaller than Megatron, but not insignificant, never insignificant, never again ins…

“Come. I want to discuss something with you.”

Deadlock followed Lord Megatron, now a bit bemused. What would the leader of the Decepticons want to discuss with him? Was he maybe… really, truly going to replace Turmoil with him? That would be strange, since Turmoil was actually not incompetent – despite of this orn’s fiasco - and loyal to Lord Megatron. Not to mention he had mecha loyal to him and Deadlock would have to deal with them. Simply removing him with no reason would be strange… and mecha would talk. 

Especially as they turned not towards the command deck – where such a change in command should be discussed – but Lord Megatron’s personal quarters. Deadlock invented a bit faster and clamped his plating to his frame. He had never been here, not even on this corridor where most higher officers had their quarters. 

“Do you still believe in our cause, Deadlock?”

What a question! Why would he not?

“Yes! Of course, Lord Megatron!”

He caught a faint echo of a smile on that stern face.

_I’ve heard great things about you._

Deadlock’s spark swelled in its crystal and he could barely keep the stern façade considered normal in the army.

“The Decepticon Army is not an easy place to be. Or keep track of ideals, for that matter.”

“I… I still believe in it... all of it. We must change the old system and build a new one. A fair one. Just like … you said in that rally.””

“Many forgot that since.”

“I didn’t! I will never forget it!”

Megatron turned as they arrived to his door and he nodded to Deadlock.

“I know. Which is why you’re here.”

_You’re special!_

“I’m ready to do anything, My Lord!”

“Anything? Be careful what you offer… I may call you out on it.”

He stepped into the dark quarters, Deadlock following him, unsure but elated, worried but hopeful, plating flared from the praise but audials canted back worriedly…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is the dub-con, because Megatron doesn't ask but Deadlock fights it only for appearances' sake.

“Sit.”

The place was fairly dark, cavernous in its size and lit only by two small lamps, one by the table and one further back in the main room, giving mere hints of a large berth and other cabinets. It was the first splash of dim light Megatron waved him towards while he went to a cabinet and took out two cubes and a bottle. Deadlock cautiously approached the table and tried not to ogle too obviously the datapads strewn all over it, the scraps of flimsies, various styluses and empty cubes – a curious glance into the workings of a leadership. He went around the large chair that was obviously Megatron’s and gingerly sat on the edge of the smaller one at the far side of the table, trying not to think how he was now cut off from the door, his only escape-route if… Deadlock stopped that thought with some effort. He had no reason to fear… still, when Megatron returned with the energon he almost jumped to his pedes – no matter who he was, Deadlock’s senses screamed alert when he came from behind him and brushed his shoulder pauldron, even as it sent an entirely different zing of charge into his neral net…

… but Megatron laughed once in his deep tone that shuddered deep inside him and with one servo on his shoulder, he pressed the smaller mech back into the chair. He was far from reassuring, but the lack of threatening moves were as much indication as Deadlock would ever get here… so he took it. He wasn’t calm by any means, but fear was useless… and weak. He must not show weakness. He took the cube pushed towards him and gulped some of the strong high-grade down. Absently, he noted its quality and taste, but he was more interested in what Lord Megatron would say.

Megatron didn’t mince words.

“I want you to do a dangerous job for me.”

His tone, the stress on the personal indicator made Deadlock remember of that _you’re special_ sentiment again and his plating flared with pride. And, well, dangerous was what he did on an ornly basis. Taking care of the Autobot spies and saboteurs was no work for a weak or faintsparked mech. He was hanging on to every word.

“I’m ready to do whatever…”

“I know.” Megatron was more serious now “But this is something even more… well. How would you like to be an Autobot?”

Deadlock froze. An Autobot, him? Was this some sort of a… joke? Surely not!

“B-but… I’m not an agent. Not even in intelligence.”

“Soundwave tells me that we’ve run out of good moles among the Bots. Accursed Autobot intelligence, that Jazz mech…” – Megatron’s tone was furious when he said the Autobot saboteur’s designation – “and we need info.”

It would be supremely dangerous, all right. Deadlock forgot even the closeness of Megatron and his involuntary reaction to it. His fans were on for some time and he barely noticed it.

“Why me?”

But Megatron did and the corner of his mouth curled to a tiny smirk. Deadlock forced his fans to stop and clamped his plating close. It made him even hotter underneath, but he forced himself of concentrating to the topic.

“You are a mech of principle. If you start disagreeing with our ideals, then defect, the softsparked fools will believe you. Especially if you get a special reason for leaving.”

Deadlock blinked. His fans broke free of his will and started up again. He had trouble concentrating. 

“I… I… don’t know what to say…”

Megatron was outright smiling now – a sharp and dangerous smile, but one none the less. He also leaned closer and a sharp claw stroked over the length of one audial flare. Deadlock forgot to lean away. He forgot what was being said as well. There was just that touch, that electric point where they were connected and nothing else. He stared with wide optics into the red pinpoints smoldering close to him, over him, nailing him into the chair… and the deep voice rumbling through him like a thunderstorm.

“If only I had known this before…”

There was a tiny note of regret in that harsh tone. Deadlock rose automatically as the digit was lifted away, like he wanted to prolong that contact. Which he totally did. He should have been embarrassed to be so weak, to submit so easily, to want more of this… whatever it was. Because it couldn’t be softness, not from Lord Megatron, not for Deadlock… why? 

Megatron stared at him as they stood by the table now, some calculating glint returning to his optics and it sobered up Deadlock a little He gasped for a gulp of air and tried to settle his frazzled nerves. He was babbling still, but he needed to say something to defuse the charged atmosphere. He was not a buymech to just submit so easily, no, not to even… Megatron! It was demeaning. It was… wrong! He put another meter or so between them. Just to be… sure.

“I… would do it. That spying thing, I mean. I mean, I don’t know… but I could do it…!”

Megatron followed him and Deadlock stepped back once more, but the smoldering red optics were close again, far too close and Deadlock’s back bumped into a wall and there was no place to retreat any more and those servos rose again, thumping lightly to the wall on both sides of his shoulder pauldrons…

“We shall talk about that later… I think.”

Lord Megatron was even bigger than Turmoil, Deadlock’s processor unhelpfully pointed it out to him. To be pinned down twice in such a short time was an uncomfortable feeling. Though at least this time, Megatron was less forceful than Turmoil… more like insistent than forcing the issue. Still, Deadlock felt it his duty to try and get free. Appearances must be maintained and all that… feling vaguely horrified by his own boldness, he kneed into the larger mech’s apex of legs and tried to break the hold of one of those huge arms. The faint, deep chuckle was not a very promising reaction to either moves. He might as well tried to move a mountain. Or kick one. 

He forgot both when the helm descended onto his and fanged mouth kissed him with force and a taste of energon – both from their drink before and what those fangs drew from his lipplates. Deadlock bit back and felt the approving rumble from the large frame holding him to the wall. The violent kiss was full of fangs and glossa and energon, it was like a battle in the miniature, it was like a fight for dominance that he had no chance of winning, but it was one he fought nevertheless, because it was as enjoyable as inflaming…

Deadlock clawed the plating he had under his digits, uncaring what it was, his battle-grade claws sinking into seams and twanged reinforced cables while the biting-tearing-hot kiss went on and on… and he was handled equally forcefully and they both loved it. He was lifted and carried and thrown down onto the berth jarring his pauldrons that he barely had time and mind to transform away, and Deadlock did not wait until he was pinned again – he kicked and fought, feeling braver and braver by the klik as his _insolence?_ was not punished but rewarded by more tearing kisses and more brutal handling and Lord Megatron had claws as well to sink into protoform and excite cables and Deadlock cared not at all that he was bleeding from numerous small wounds, because he gave as good as he got and it only enflamed their lust…

“Open!”

It was a growled order but Deadlock resisted with all his might. Not because he didn’t want to, but because of… principles. He smirked and bit savagely into Lord Megatron’s mouth, tearing a bleeding wound and licking the energon it spouted before nanites swarmed there and locked down the flow. 

“Make me.”

A deep laugh and more of those fondling-scratching-tearing claws and Deadlock realized that his fans were on their highest setting for quite a while and his panel pinged him insistently to open and he needed to deny it every few kliks. 

“Won’t be a hard task.”

It wasn’t. Just the hint of those claws curling around the edge of his panel, just that electric, hot touch, just the smoldering red of the optics searing into his vision… and he lost it. His panel snapped open and those dangerous claws were there, stroking the already lubricant-slick lips, curling in with a hint of sharpness and danger… freezing for a nanoklik when he felt the scars, but Megatron made no mention of them and Deadlock certainly wouldn’t. The claws slid higher, curling around his fast pressurizing spike and Deadlock growled into Megatron’s mouth, fangs teasing his glossa, like a threat… pinpricks of pain zinged through him as the claws ever so carefully teased back and Megatron leaned closer, smothering the warrior into the berth covers, pushing his arms up, holding them over his helm with one servo.

“You’re mine.”

_you’re special!_

And he slammed his spike home, swallowing the slightly pained grunt at the sudden, forceful stretch and Deadlock couldn’t help but feel… home, which was a queer thing to feel when taken forcefully by one’s commander, but still, it was like coming home and being welcomed and praised and Deadlock loved every klik of it, every burning stretch as that large spike slid home, every bleeding wound. He would never admit it to anymech, but he was happier than ever before in his life. The slight pain was just right, the stretch was just fine, the fullness was exquisite – and not at all like what he remembered from quick, dirty interfaces in back alleys and run-down hotelrooms…

Lord Megatron was forceful and dominating and actually, yes, actually hurting him – but still it was light-years from those long gone clients who would do the same, but still not. It was worlds away from Turmoil, who wanted, tried and nearly succeed to do the same. For right here-and-now it was natural to submit, it was natural to fight back, it was natural to be taken by force… because it was Megatron and Deadlock would have done this even without the attraction, the feeling he refused to label, but yes, he was all for it now. 

It was fast and rough and he loved it. He gave back as good as he got and in no time their energon mingled from a dozen small cuts and bites. He was pushed across the berth from the rough thrusts, but they lit up every node in his valve and made him groan and hold on with ten claws and both his legs clamped around dark hips, his heels grinding into plating because it was good, it was amazing, it was exactly how he would have wanted – had he ever dared to imagine himself special enough to be with Lord Megatron.

_I’ve heard great things about you._

Yes, he totally did. Deadlock admitted to himself in the secrecy of his processor, but he would never utter it aloud. 

He held on as the tempo fastened and Megatron grunted, thrust, growled, bit and Deadlock leaned his helm to the side, bared his throat and loved and _treasured forever_ the small sound of satisfaction as deadly fangs grazed his sensitive cables, bit him, marked him _you’re mine_ and Deadlock couldn’t hold on any more and shouted his designation into the darkness, his valve clamped onto that overlarge spike, spasming madly as he overloaded. The transfluid flooding his valve, stretching his abdominals crested him again straight away and Lord Megatron’s growling roar throbbed through him like lifebeat and… _cut._

He came to again, mere kliks later with the weight pressing him into the berth, Lord Megatron just breathing out a heated vent and Deadlock kissed-bit-licked that smile, tiny as it was, because he wanted one more taste if it was to be their last and his spark spun happily at the small sound of assent and the twitch of the spike imbedded in his valve.

They discussed very little that night about Deadlock’s planned defection.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is the non-con warning, even though Deadlock is kinda... not consenting, but resigned that he must do it. It's not detailed much though.

Deadlock didn’t like the plan. Scratch that, he hated that plan. It was Soundwave’s so it was bound to be working – and embarrassing and/or hurt like the Pit. Ohh, he had no reason to think that it wouldn’t work. Deadlock was sure that it would. He just wished it was somemech else playing the main part in it. Partly because it was embarrassing to show himself as an errant repenter to the goody-goody Autobots, begging them to take him in. Partly, and it was the last reason, but the most important, because every dark cycle he kept returning to Lord Megatron’s quarters and though he wasn’t sure what it was between them, but it was important… and barely started before ending, probably for good. And lastly, because of… Turmoil. That last part of the plan was what Drift-Deadlock used to be perfectly capable of enacting – but the most reluctant now, since that… _not-something-but-still-very-important_ he had with Lord Megatron. 

But orders are orders and Decepticons should not be questioning them. At least not if one wasn’t Starscream. So Deadlock packed up his meager belongings and followed Turmoil to the ship they were ordered to, to hunt Autobots across the galaxy. Or so the cover story went, with himself questioning the core Decepticon tenets and being sent away as punishment. And they hunted them too, to Deadlock’s utmost satisfaction – if he would be unable to kill Bots in the future, he wanted to do it while he still could. He revelled in it in fact. It helped his renown… while he had a renown, Deadlock amended it to himself. Once he defected, he would be hunted by all and sundry, renown or no renown. Though he had hoped that the DJD knew his eventual defection to be a false one.

The opportunity came five decaorns after they set off with the brand new ship and came to an alien space station that Deadlock was sure to have some Autobot agents. Informants. Whatever. The drivel they spouted was very much like theirs at least and he made sure to discuss ideas and ideals with them, going as far as occasionally agreeing. Also, ever since they set out he was hard put to avoid Turmoil’s increasingly insistent passes and crude innuendos and it wasn’t easy to avoid his commander on the relatively small ship. The threat from Lord Megatron has kept the black mech away at first, but as distance grew, his inhibitions disappeared. The whole ship knew and gossiped that he wanted Deadlock and that Deadlock definitely did not want to submit to him. Other than the chain of command, that is. Or the dangerous ideas he started to harbor.

The space station had a bar catering to mechanials too and the ship’s Decepticon crew enthusiastically drank a lot of flavored high grade there that was for long unavailable for anymech any more on Cybertron. Between successfully hunting Autobots and having more energon than they had for long, the spirits were high and as cheerful as Decepticons could get. Deadlock hated crowds, especially mixed mechanical and organic ones, but he liked to partake in the energon like everymech else and it gave him opportunities to sound his _newfound beliefs_ as well. Turmoil was a rarer guest there, but lately he attended the bar when Deadlock was there too. 

With high grade and all it didn’t take long for Turmoil to lose al inhibitions and fear of Lord Megatron. The Decepticon leader was far away on Cybertron, while Deadlock was right there and ready for taking. Or resigned to it, anyhow.

“Here.”

Turmoil pushed a cube across the table and Deadlock disgustedly thought that the oaf might have thought that crude gesture as _courting_ … as much as the concept even existed in his commander’s limited vocabulary. But he still took the cube, grunted and threw it back. It was strong, stronger than he had expected and Deadlock swayed as the potent brew hit his tanks on top of everything else he had drunk that evening. If he was to do this, he might as well be dead drunk. Better that way.

“I thnk… tink… I gonna go bck tha ship…”

“So little and you are already out…”

Deadlock snarled back and ducked Turmoil’s disciplining swipe. Or he tried to anyhow. The blow connected and Deadlcok felt himself falling beside the bar stool, onto the dirty floor. He tried to stand but the world decided to whirl around him and he couldn’t. Not until a large servo grabbed his arm and pulled him up. It wasn’t a nice grip.

“Back to the ship with you.”

“Cn go mself…”

“Sure you can. You can’t even stand up. Some Decepticon…”

Deadlcok snarled something rude, but the sound was lost in the loud laugh of the bar and Turmoil just smirked back nastily at him. He felt himself steered towards the door by the relentless grip of his commander and barely able to put up any token resistance. 

_This is it_ , he thought with an icy cold sweat that broke through the fumes of the strong high grade in his processor… that might have been drugged as well. He should have known better than accept a cube from another Con. He wanted to spit on Trumoil, the act being about the most he felt capable of, but even that didn’t succeed and he had just sneered at him. Barely a few breems later Deadlock felt being dragged through the ship’s corridors, occasionally banging the corners and at the end unceremoniously thrown in to a room that was as dark as Lord Megatron’s… but stinking of entirely different things and promises. 

Deadlock tried to fight, he really did. He needed the dents and scratches and all the marks Turmoil was willing to give. And the oaf had gladly complied. It wasn’t the worst forced interface Drift-Deadlock has ever suffered through… but it was fairly close. The charge of the high grade was burned away as soon as Turmoil roughly thrust into his dry valve and Deadlock couldn’t help but react as he knew how to. He didn’t want his valve torn apart completely, after all. Triggering old reflexes helped a little; just like thinking of Lord Megatron and the last time they met… There was rough and there was rough; there was forceful and there was rape… 

Turmoil’s field was sickening, his dark, heady glee to finally dominating his second, his smug victory, his sick sadism all twirling in it, all suffocating Deadlock, making it hard to focus on rutines, on lubricating to avoid serious injury and making sure he gave a lot of visible marks to Turmoil as well. He scratched and tore, kicked and bit and there wasn’t a shred of real reciprocity in those acts – he did them now to truly hurt and truly leave the marks, so that the next orn every mech should see that it was not consensual. 

But as the time went on and Turmoil became increasingly rough and sadist, taking him in all ways and form… then Deadlock started to worry for more than appearances. He was bleeding profusely now and from not just minor wounds… and Turmoil showed no sign of stopping. Indeed he seemed to enjoy his pained grunts, the sound of metal tearing, the taste of his energon, the field that writhed and twisted under him…. 

Deadlock clawed blindly for his hidden dagger as he felt darkness close in on him. He wasn’t sure he would come online again if Turmoil was left to do however he pleased to once Deadlock fell offline. But he was too late and Turmoil was still strong, relatively uninjured and enjoying wrecking his second. The dagger fell, broken, unable to cause anything and kliks later Deadlock fell into the darkness with the final thought that he might not, after all, have to defect… because Turmoil might just tear him apart first. 

But he didn’t. Deadlock came to in the ship’s small medbay, aching all over, repair nanites still swarming in his numerous wounds that were welded shut, but otherwise left to heal on their own. He was still happy to even come online, which he wasn’t sure a few joors earlier. He could barely stand, but the opportunity was too good not to use it. He staggered towards an escape pod, pushing the crew aside from his way. They didn’t dare to stop him and Turmoil was late to catch the small pod as Deadlock raced away from them, trying to find an Autobot outpost to _accidentally_ crash by and defect. 

He didn’t count on Teophany and Wing. He didn’t count on being changed, or defecting for real and become an Autobot by choice.

And he absolutely didn’t count on meeting Megatron ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the great plan was to spread a little that Deadlock started to argue with the Con ideals and what they were doing in the war and at the end the rape by his own commander sealed his decision to defect. I think the Autobots would totally fall for it, should it have been for real...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay... I had to rewrite the beginning of the chapter, and then it got too long and I decided to divide it into two... but here it is.
> 
> We jump quite a lot in time, leaving out the whole chunk of time until Drift and Ratchet makes a dramatic entrance to the stranded crew on Necroworld.

The motley group spilled out of the crashed ship and ran towards the Necrobot fortress, carrying Ten and casting cautious glances behind and queer ones at each other. In this latter category, Drift and Ravage were the unannounced winners, but neither of them said anything to the other. Yet. The situation just wasn’t one for idle chatter, as they knew that their escape was at best temporal. 

Barely outside the fortress, Ratchet suddenly slowed down, letting the others overtake them, facepalmed without any sign or reason and grumbled out a short curse. Drift looked at him with fond exasperation. 

“What now?”

“Umm, well, I have forgotten to tell you something.” Ratchet was embarrassed, Drift could tell. “Because I am stupid. We have a new… ummm, captain with us. Co-captain or whatever he’s called now, without a ship.”

Drift looked at fondly the medic, his Amica, the only mech who came after him to call him back to the ship, but his audials canted back curiously. He also cast a narrowed glance at Ravage, now slinking forward, just disappearing into the fortress. The beastformer offered no reason for being around either, but Drift supposed he wasn’t the one who should ask that from anymech any more. He was not member of the team any more, even though they came back. The swordsmech refocused on Ratchet instead.

“What happened to Rodimus?”

There was something about a… vote, that Ratchet said? Surely they didn’t…

“Nothing. It’s not him… it’s… ummm… Megatron.”

Drit stopped in the middle of the entrance bay, frozen into the half-taken step through the doorway. It felt like ages before he could convince his vocalizer to function again, even longer to smooth his instinctively flared plating back.

“What? How? Why? Megatron, as in… Megatron, the Lord of the Decepticons?”

“Yes, him. Not a Decepticon any more, supposedly. But yeah, I know. It’s crazy. But Optimus saw it fit to put him on board the Lost Light and make him a captain and now he’s… probably in there with the others.”

Drift was still frozen into a white and black statue in the middle of the doorway, processor trying to make sense of what he was just told. The last he heard was that Megatron faced a trial and probably execution. How did that turn into captaincy of the Lost Light? Short captaincy as that was, anyhow, considering their predicament.

And would he still want to go in now, rejoin the team? Would he not want to? Things already complicated have just turned even more convoluted.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it before. I forgot. I didn’t realize that you… I mean the two of you… “

“The two of us… what?”

Pits, Drift had hoped that nomech, especially no Autobots and most importantly not Ratchet knew about his exact history with Megatron. Other than the public part of it. He had managed to keep that botched plan secret for eons and hoped that it stayed that way. Forgotten. The other part… well his track record for mechs, who appreciated, who _valued_ him for whatever reason, staying alive and beside him was abysmal anyhow. From Gasket till Wing, and Rodimus the latest… let’s not go there. He didn’t have luck in relationships, period. Except for Ratchet, but that was different.

“I mean only just that you were both… Cons.”

Ratchet was embarrassed and still avoiding looking at him. He was also torn between staying with Drift and explain everything in detail… but Ten was already inside and he needed a medic. Or two. 

“Ratch…” Drift wasn’t sure what he was going to say but he plowed on. “It was… a long time ago.”

“I know that. Still…”

“And I am not the same mech. I’m… not Deadlock.”

Which was a bit of a shady truth, because Deadlock was just under the surface of Drift, has been there always, would be there forever, kept there by all that he learned from… Wing. But he was Drift too, so it wasn’t a complete lie. It was just… incomplete.

“I know…”

“And I presume Megatron is not the same mech either. I cannot imagine Optimus Prime doing this if that were the case.”

“Sure, he’s… different. Claims that he has given up violence and all that slag.”

Drift started walking again, bringing his frame and faceplates under control. So he would face Lord… _no, not lord any more_ … Megatron again, and under circumstances more dangerous than even his usual brand of adventure what with the whole DJD, Overlord and Deathsaurus, along with however many Cons outside and wanting to kill them all. It should be… interesting, if possibly lethal, he conceded.

But when they got inside, Megatron was not there… to Drift’s secret relief. Apparently he got out to parley with Tarn? Drift snorted inelegantly, while sharpening one of his swords that got nicked in a Con armour. As if such thing was possible. Tarn was a fanatic. If Megatron has truly changed, Tarn would put him on his infamous list in a sparkbeat – and if he hasn’t, well, then they had an even bigger problem in their servos. Anyhow, there was no… negotiating with Tarn. He was either Megatron’s tamed turbohound or he was a betrayed one with all the ferocity of one.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Drift’s servo tightened imperceptibly on the sword’s handle and the whetstone stilled for a nanoklik before resuming its steady travel along the sword’s edge.

“That makes a change.”

He wasn’t going to let Rodimus off the hook just like that. No matter the circumstances.

“Oww…”

Rodimus fell silent and something like a rare guilt was writhing in his relentless field that was all over the place. Drift just wanted to get it over with. One emotional minefield at a time was all he could handle and he was rapidly exhausting his meager potential in this.

“Well… welcome back…”

“It’s… good to be back…?”

Drift curled the end of the sentence up to a faint questioning tone and Rodimus’s field flared along with a blush.

“I… ummm, I… sorry, Drift. It as... I was... it was a bad decision. Scratch bad, it was my worst ever. I’m…”

”It was my idea.” 

After all, it was. He couldn’t watch Roddy fight with his demons, he couldn’t see his quest fall apart, he couldn’t face with the dead himself… so he offered an out for himself and for his best friend. An offer he still wasn’t sure how to take that it was accepted…

“Though I would have appreciated you seeking me out once you told the crew.”

Rodimus’s shadow, cast on the floor by the light outside, fidgeted nervously.

“That, well, umm… I was… afraid.”

“Of me?”

“That you’d hate me. That you’d hate to take the blame and realize it was for nothing.”

“Ohh.”

“Look… I’m just… just look at me, Drift, please! I’m sorry! I’m honestly, truly sorry!”

Drift slowly stopped the calm swipes of the whetstone on his sword, raised his helm and took in Rodimus, as the speedster was standing in the backlit doorway, the familiar shape, the familiar, flickering, wavering, never calm field, the faintly trembling spoiler that hung low… and the optics shining with true guilt and nearly begging him for absolution. The speedster froze as he felt the glance on him but Drift stared at him long enough for Rodimus to start fidgeting again.

“I see that you are.” He conceded.

“Okay… are we… good then?”

Drift nodded slowly. He didn’t want to harbour resentment any more and as he had heard from Ratchet, Rodimus had paid for his decisions as well – and suffered the consequences. To heap more guilt on him would be cruel and unnecessary. And they both had work to do, with the DJD’s threat looming over them. Time to talk, even about necessary issues had to take a backseat. For now it was almost… _almost_ as if everything was fine between them.


	5. Chapter 5

All things considered, it wasn’t long before Drift went into a storeroom to gather something for Ratchet - and on his way out he found the door blocked. By none other than a large, steel-grey frame, standing unmoving and filling the opening completely. Drift put down the crate he held and straightened up. He had heard of Megatron’s return and repair, but he avoided the medbay since, unconsciously putting off this very moment. Heavy silence fell and lasted for breems, while neither of them knew just how to start, what to say and where to go from there.

“So…”

“So…”

They spoke up together and it drew a faint, tired smile on Megatron’s grim façade. It was a different smile than back then, more… open and honest, less concerned with appearances a Decepticon leader had to muster; but also more tired, like his age or probably what he had done was catching up with him. Wasn’t he still injured?

“I’ve heard that you returned.” Megatron spoke up again.

“I’ve heard what you did.” Drift countered.

Megatron bowed his helm and and his tightly controlled field writhed a little around him. And yes, there was pain in it, exhaustion and less-defined sad emotions Drift had never associated with the Decepticon leader and which frankly shocked him to the core.

“I’ve done a lot, true. Come with me, De… Drift. I’m sure we have a lot we should tell each other. If you want to, that is.”

He was different. For somemech who had known him as long as Drift, the difference was palpable and somewhat worrying. And he was curious and interested in this new Megatron. As well as where the old one has gone. Was it just under the façade like Deadlock… or was it different for him?

“I do.”

Drift left the storeroom, fell in steps beside Megatron and was secretly thankful for Ratchet to keep Rodimus away. This was important now. More important even than the threat from the outside. They walked on the empty corridors and Drift kept stealing glances at him. Whatever happened lately, Megatron was… still Megatron. Though he moved slower now, almost casually strolling on the corridors, and that darkly burning, enticing but dangerous energy that always enveloped him appeared to be missing now. Yes, that was what Drift felt, the lack of that enticing charisma Megatron had always had. Along with the Autobot badge on his chest it made him pretty strange.

And also there was tension between them, a distance that wasn’t measured physically and didn’t stem from the passage of time since they last saw each other. Drift wasn’t that naïve, eager to please, avid recruit he used to be – and Megatron wasn’t _Lord Megatron_ any more, wasn’t his leader, his hero, his… they walked beside each other now as equals and with each step he took, Drift felt the shock of meeting him again melt from his processor, felt himself falling back to that calm center Wing has laboured so much to teach him. They found an empty room and Megatron gestured Drift inside. Privacy was hard to come by in the Necrobot fortress, where every mech roamed as they pleased, but maybe noone would look for them here for awile.

“I’ve heard your accomplishments.”

And still, even after so much time that one sentence, the not-even-hidden praise in the stark tone was enough to break free a deep, nearly buried well of old, familiar emotions in him and make his spark swell.

“Likewise.” Drift held onto the words to keep his balance. “Though I seemed to miss your… trial? And how you got to be here, I mean on the Lost Light.”

“And here, I have thought that it rocked the known universe…”

Megatron’s voice was dry with undertones of vry humor and Drift stared. That was new and surprising. Humor has never been a tool Megatron employed and the slight curl of his mouth melted away soon as the swordsmech didn’t react. Silence fell again in a great sheet, awkward, lame silence, burning like cold acid rain, writhing with too many unsaid things.

They stood in the dimly lit room, barely a meter from each other, but still separated by an eternity, by all that had happened… and those vorns that passed. Frames shifted slightly, vents hissed into the silence, engines’ quiet noises mingled into it. Megatron appeared to hesitate, unsure what to say again. It was strange to see, the indecision, the worry, the tiredness that went deep to the spark. It was queer to be the firmer, more decisive of them but Drift came a long way from Deadlock, in this at least and Megatron had just come back from near dead after his meeting with Tarn. Whatever Megatron talked with him obviously took of its toll more than just a physical wound.

“Whatever happened… I’m glad that you weren’t executed.”

Megatron nodded and exvented heavily. Great shoulders sagged by a millimetre, a powerful engine hiccupped ever so slightly. 

“I had a lot to think about. A lot I had done and should have done differently. A lot I have to… atone for. This latest situation just the last of those.”

Drift shuddered under the sheer weight of the words. There was stark, bare honesty in them, sad conviction behind them, self-doubts, guilt in great measures and questions without answers - most of them the very same things he had carried as baggage for long and fought hard to resolve. The shared, known burden made him feel closer again.

“Including you.”

That broke something, a dam of emotions in Drift’s spark. This time it was his engine that juddered and he curled his servos into fists. 

“I left.” He conceded. “Left and changed. Been changed.”

Unspoken were the hows and whys of that leaving, but then… they both knew it well. Drift never forgot a single moment of it. _Megatron remaking him as Deadlock…lifting him out of the gutters, giving him a goal, a reason to live… then that botched plan long ago… Megatron sending him away just as they discovered the bare beginnings of what had for each other… the gory details of it, designed by him… then Wing, and Deadlock slowly changing, learning, reforming for real, becoming an Autobot and Drift once more…_ and finally the end of it all, the Lost Light. The unlikely terminus of both their travels through convoluted roads but leading them towards each other once more.

“You came back.”

Drift tightened his fists and scowled. Was it… could it be that simple? They found each other again by an unlikely act of random fate and that was it? Two changed, reformed mechs, both Autobots now, both ex-Decepticons, both on the same mission, both carrying the same guilt and facing the same fears and… it was like destiny wanted, no, nudged, even _forced_ them to meet again. But could it be that simple after all that had transpired?

“You’ve changed too.”

No _slag_. Drift scowled. Empty platitudes weren’t going to solve anything. Even ones that needed to be said.

“A lot.”

A glance at the sword scabbards, the hilt of the Great Sword that rose over his helm, then sliding down on his new frame… and Drift felt warmth suffuse him at that glance. He fought it, wanting to keep a cool processor. His… attraction for Megatron never changed, but it wasn’t enough any more. He needed more.

“They rebuilt me on Teophany. Inside and out.”

“It’s a nice change.” But Megatron still didn’t move, didn’t reach out, so Drift refrained from it too. The distance was still too much between them… even though it was barely a mechanometer and he felt tiny lighting bolts zinging through the space, fields’ edges flirt and prickle his sensors. “And in a way I sent you there, though it wasn’t the goal. It may have been a bad idea… but you ended up in a right place.”

Drift scowled. It was true… and it was not. And he had some thorns lodged deep and painful that refused to take it that simply. He raised his voice slightly, struggling to remain calm and failing for the most part, and his voice rose as the words fell unchecked from his vocalizer.

“You sent me away, knowing I would probably fail, I see it now. All spies failed and I had no training, no aptitude for that slag. A believable backstory wouldn’t have been enough. You used me!”

The silence was even heavier after the ringing words and stretching away into eternity. The cold darkness swirled around them and Megatron suddenly seemed to move farther, colder, more closed, more… folding, slumping in on himself, appearing smaller. But his tone was still measured, calm… resigned?

“Yes, I knew that. And… yes, I did.”

“The Autobots would probably have executed me!”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t care!”

Drift barely restrained himself from following his words with fists… or swords. Deadlock, betrayed, thrown away, vengeful Deadlock has never been so close to the surface than in this moment and it showed on his lines, his frame, his tense, coiled stance. Megatron made no move to retreat or defend himself. He nodded his helm to the side and answered calmly, just a tiny sharpness biting in his tone.

“I did care. I still do. I sent Lockdown…”

“Who’d happily sell me to the slavers and killed Wing!”

The shout rang into an echo, bouncing around in the dark, spinning a web around them, binding them, freezing them into a tableau. Something snapped in Drift, the loss of Wing suddenly standing out in sharp, painful detail in his processor and he was surging, gathering all his strength, ploughing into Megatron, snarling as he pushed the larger, heavier frame into the wall, engine roaring with the effort and rage, slamming him into there and…

…and Megatron made no move to defend himself. 

“WHY?”

There was a tiny, wry curl in his mouth and Drift suddenly remembered that he had just come back from near death, from Tarn and though he didn’t know the details, but he could guess that conversation might have gone somewhat similarly. Tarn was widely mocked – behind his back of course - in the Decepticon army as Megatron’s most devoted, most avid fan and he had to feel similarly betrayed by his idol’s defection than Drift. Only, when Tarn felt betrayed, he turned violent and killed…

Was he, was Deadlock the same?

Drift lowered his servos with some effort, curled them into fists to keep from hitting steel-gray armour any more… and stepped back. He vented heavily. Megatron’s voice as he spoke up was quiet, nothing like his usual, loud and clear, authoritative tone. Almost like… introspective?

“It was necessary then. Or so I had felt. Now… I feel differently about a whole slew of things that I had done. Some were necessary. Some were… not. Some were abominations. Some just… sad. I see it now, as I didn’t see it then. Just like you have learned to see things differently. Regret things. Atone. Change. Keep the inner demons at bay. Live each orn a struggle not to fall back to violence and amoral decisions, one used for so long - while keeping the ideals that one holds true.”

Drift nodded, despite his still smoldering anger. It was… right. True, he had changed a lot, mostly thanks to Wing’s tenacity, so… he couldn’t, _shouldn’t_ hold it to Megatron when he himself has done the same. If anything he should be glad that at least they were able to change and be a better mech. Though Drift had always and even still doubted himself, it was nevertheless clear to him that his conscience was way better now than some vorns ago… and that had to count for something, right? 

But still… all that was theory and this, between them was… personal. And Megatron didn’t apologize, didn’t ask forgiveness… he stated clearly what he felt and his regret looking back to certain events… but he didn’t apologise. Drift suddenly felt old and cold and a bitter Deadlock still very close to the surface. It was his bitter voice that spoke up at last.

“Then maybe that’s all we have in common any more.”

He turned away vocalizer constricting, unable to say any more. He felt tired, wrung out and… disappointed. Spark aching, processor spurning heavily. Maybe he had been just imagining things, seeing more into certain events than he should have. Maybe it was all just a game for Megatron, like the ones he played with Starscream… a way to keep a besotted, blind follower loyal and even eager to sacrifice himself… or whatever it was they had had been burned away in this change, in his reform…

“I hope not.”

Megatron was suddenly closer, the heat of his engine warming his back, his shadow falling on him, and there was a servo on his shoulder now, heavy but not holding, strong but not tightening, just laid there, contacting them, making their fields touch and embrace and let Drift feel the longing in it. 

“We have both came a long way and now that we _can_ be together, now that it _might_ be the last opportunity to do so… I find that I do not _want_ to miss it.”

Hope flared somewhere truly deep in Drift’s stupidly optimistic spark… and in Deadlock’s cold, angry one as well. A tightly coiled knot inside wanted to unravel, pride and defiance warred with the slowly blossoming hope and need. Lust added its heat to the mix and Drift was a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions. But he turned back slowly, keeping that point of contact between them alive, glancing upwards into red pinpoints with something akin to kindling, weak, but slowly blossoming hope.

“You have always been special to me.”

That sentence undone him. A stale vent he didn’t realize he had been holding sighed out sharply and Drift reached up to put his servo on Megatron’s. 

“And not as a soldier.

Drift’s spark surged and demanded him to say something, to answer and _dontyoudaretobotchthis_ and he sank claws into the arm under his servo and pulled and

“I need you.”

Great, eloquent and succinct. Drift bit his lips and cursed his processor. When it mattered he could say the most idiotic things and only Ratchet seemed to understand it – and why he acted so. Even Wing had sometimes just stared at him with wide, gold optics politely confused…

“Good, because you can have me. I’m right here.”

Drift wanted to laugh with Megatron’s chuckle. Talk about cheesy oneliners… but the unbearable tension was broken and they still didn’t kill each other, so it must be okay. The servo on his shoulder tugged him lightly and Drift went willingly to close the remaining distance between them, revelling in the field that embraced him as much as those strong arms embraced his frame. Doubts and questions shed from his processor, some resolved, some just put to rest. Tangled emotions smoothed, the harsh ones dimming, old, familiar, aching ones surging to the fore. 

“And we shall face whatever comes together.”

Oh yes, they had a battle and more than likely a glorious death ahead. But anyhow, anyway, now it was a good day to die, as he had heard from an organic race he met on his travels, because things seemed simple and solved all of a sudden and he had back what he didn’t know how much he missed and Drift was past caring about anything else. He tugged and pulled and rose until Megatron understood his intent and their lips crashed together into a ferocious kiss he remembered. Deadlock surged to the foreground and Drift went with it, remembering those amazing almost-battle-interfaces so long time ago… they kissed and bit and it was almost like back then… 

“Primus, I missed you… and I never thought I would see you again… and not as an enemy, not someone to kill.”

Great arms tightened around him and lifted him more until they could see optic to optic. Drift never felt his shorter stature a disadvantage – Megatron could easily hold him with his back to the wall, his legs around him, their hot panels already touching and rubbing and spraying sparks from the contact and his valve was clenching wet already, empty and hungry…

“I was sure you’d hate me, once you defected for real. You could always hate as intensely as you could love.”

“I did hate you.” Drift conceded between two kisses. “I still do… somewhat. But I hate myself too on bad orns, so I guess it’s inevitable.”

A wry grimace answered him, telling him more than any words. Drift’s frame undulated, slid and rubbed on rapidly heating gray armour, and he kissed away that grimace. They didn’t have long. In fact he was surprised that nomech yet came to collect them for it felt that time was flying away and sunset way too close. There were still a thousand things they should talk about – but the deepest, most aching thorns were pulled out and though their wounds still stung, it was already much better now. Megatron’s field was livelier too and his movements stronger, surer… though never going as far in roughness as before.

“C’mon… don’t hold back on me now.”

Drift cared less about constraining himself and more about coaxing out that spike. It was less likely for him to harm Megatron anyway, so he never cared to hold back – bites and dents and claw-marks were an accepted, indeed considered a normal side of interface among the Decepticons. But Megatron… this new, changed Megatron was a lot more constrained than before. The strong grip was there, to hold him, the large spike that slowly impaled him marvellously, the fanged kiss to steal his moans and Drift moaned into them as his valve was stretched after so long by a girth he loved and what never hurt him.

“Yes… yesss!”

“Mine…”

It was still fast and rough, despite of the care, because they had little time. Maybe the last such occasion and Drift was going to exploit the slag out of it. He rode the spike and arched back to the wall, bracing his servos on grey shoulders and pressing his hips forward, valve clutching and spasming around Megatron’s thrusting spike… Drift panted and writhed as much as he could and it was marvellous, it was amazing to let go of his worries and doubts and set hurts aside and let his gratitude, his… _love? Was it love, really? it sure felt like it…_ to come forward and take center stage, let them guide him into pleasure and let it be Megatron, who gave it to him. 

“Drift….!”

Hot fluid burst into his valve, a hot field nearly exploded around him, Megatron curled forward and the embrace grew so tight, his armour creaked, but he rode it and exulted in it and it was incredible to be the very center of his world for a glorious klik… and it pushed Drift too over the edge and he overloaded, valve clutching his spike like a vice and a crooked shout forced itself out from his vocalizer…

“Megatroooo….!”

They panted in tandem and Drift nearly slid from loosening embrace when he felt Megatron lowering himself to one knee and then there was floor under his aft and it was cold on their hot plating and Drift laughed, breathless and tugged that idiot helm, that made kissing an exercise in fitting together, closer and burrowed into his field and didn’t want to come out any time soon. Megatron’s field echoed that statement, but it was tinged in sadness still… and again. 

“It might be the last…”

“Sshhh.” Drift silenced the stupid words with a kiss. “We will live happily ever after. Like in the idiot fairytales.”

Megatron’s choked, incredulous laugh was accompanied by a shocked flare of his field. Drift smirked crookedly and laughed too.

“Highly unlikely.”

“Yeah, I know. But a mech can dream, can’t we?”

Red optics looked at him warmly, still sad, resigned, but a lot livelier than before.

“That we can certainly do…”

He murmured and then there was noise from the corridor and both their comms erupted in pings.

Their time was up. Anyhow, it was nice from it to let them to finish, Drift pondered as they rose and left to fight and quite possibly die.

**Author's Note:**

> I might try to rewrite this one day. Longer maybe, with more talks? i don't know. The last part sure wasn't very popular, though when I wrote it, I liked how it came out...


End file.
